


and no, death doesn't count

by aellesiym



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotionally Repressed, M/M, set sometime between 'broken' and the series 1 finale, they're so very repressed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:40:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aellesiym/pseuds/aellesiym
Summary: Ianto's never seen Jack sleep. He wonders if he does.Filling in some gaps in their relationship in Series 1.
Relationships: Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 14
Kudos: 81





	and no, death doesn't count

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely Alina translated this to Russian, you can read it [here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/9241606)!

Ianto’s never seen Jack sleep.

Sure, Jack probably does – eventually, once in a rare while – but he’s never stayed late enough to find out.

In the early days of his employment, Ianto would remain at the Hub until the small hours of the night, slipping out only when Jack told him to go home. What Jack got up to after that, he didn’t know. Wasn’t sure he wanted to, for that matter. Instead, he’d head back to his flat, mechanically running through a routine before sinking down onto his bed.

Sometimes, he was able to sleep. Inevitably, he’d wake up in the morning with his heart racing, the electric shock of fear running through his veins. It wasn’t always nightmares – sure, they were unpleasant, filled with fire, death, _pain_ – but mostly, he woke up to his hands shaking, his mind black with dread, and there was no discernable reason in sight.

Nothing in sight, really. It was rather difficult to see when one was fighting off the last remnants of terror.

And yet, it was honestly just another fact of his life. He’s Ianto Jones, Torchwood employee; he makes bloody good coffee and wakes up feeling like shit.

Well. He didn’t see a point in changing it, not when there were more pressing issues. And he wouldn’t know where to start, even if he wanted to – which, he doesn’t. The unending churn that is his mind wouldn’t let him, anyway.

It’s why he likes the archives – where it’s just him and the vast eccentricities that they’ve gathered over the decades, away from everything and most importantly, everyone. He could lose himself here, working away. Has, multiple times.

Is, currently.

There was something calming about the structure of it all, of creating order out of the chaos, one step at a time. Just him and some mostly inanimate objects. No people; no complexity. You couldn’t catalogue people. Well, you could try, but it’d get messy, and it’d get messy terribly quickly. Extremely unsatisfying. Objects, on the other hand – much easier. Less pushback.

The others didn’t understand, which is why the archives was such a mess to begin with. He didn’t mind it, though. It gave him an excuse to stay after hours, avoiding the inescapable trudge back home.

Not that his flat is his home. He isn’t sure where home is, anymore (if he ever had it to begin with) but it certainly isn’t _there_ – the flat is barren, filled only with necessities and the detritus that gathers with any neglected space.

Then again, Jack probably has it worse, living at the Hub and all that. But Jack doesn’t say anything. He wouldn’t. Something about ‘staying composed for the team’ but Ianto’s fairly sure that’s all bollocks. Many things are, with Jack, like – Does he sleep? Ianto doesn’t particularly care; if he can look after himself, Jack can too.

It’s not like their relationship means anything, if that even is what it is. It almost definitely isn’t. He can’t tell with Jack.

He continues to sort through the mess of artefacts.

Like clockwork, Jack finds him. “It’s late,” he says, lingering at the entrance before coming closer. “You should go home.”

“You too, sir,” Ianto replies, not looking at him.

Jack gives him a wry smile and places a hand on his shoulder. “This is my home.”

“I know. But I…” He trails off. “Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, closing the drawer. Heads for the exit.

“Wait—” Jack reaches for Ianto’s arm and Ianto lets him, pausing. “If you want – you can stay.”

“Stay for work, or stay the night?” he asks. He’s not sure which he would prefer.

“Up to you.”

Ianto glances at the shelves; considers organizing them.

Pushes Jack up against them, instead.

Somehow, they make it to Jack’s bed.

After, Ianto moves to leave. No point in staying.

Jack lets him.

Was there a flicker of – _something_ – in his eyes? Can’t have been. It’s Jack.

Wordlessly, he climbs up. Showers and changes.

He still doesn’t know if Jack sleeps.

Ianto heads out and doesn’t return to his flat. The early hours of the morning are peaceful, with the occasional car swishing by, the lone illuminated window, shuttered shops, a rustling breeze. He knows the city – loves it, in fact – knows which coffee shops open earliest, and of which are actually decent, knows the twists and turns, the alleys and shortcuts, wanders through it all, remembers it all, tries not to think about Torchwood as he does. Or Jack, for that matter – anything but Jack. Not about his hands, or his voice, the way that he can be so very gentle with him if he chooses or, the rare times that he holds him, after—

It’s nothing. It’s fine.

God, he’s so lonely.

When day breaks, he takes the lift back down to the Hub. It’s a little too flashy for him, but it’s the closest entrance and he’s been out for too long in the cold. Jack’s in his office, as per usual.

“Brought you coffee, sir,” says Ianto, placing a mug on his desk. “Need anything else?”

He’s about to leave when Jack calls after him. “You can just stay, next time. Really stay the night.”

Ianto’s mind goes blank. It’s not like he wants to leave, but – it’s just sex, isn’t it? Staying wouldn’t do him any good. “I – I can’t.”

“It’s seven-thirty, you’ve been gone less than four hours,” says Jack. He almost sounds like he’s pleading. Almost.

“I’ve … I—” He knows he shouldn’t push it, this rare moment of vulnerability, but he’s just so _tired_ – tired of trying to puzzle out Jack’s intentions, of untangling his own. It all comes out in a rush. “Jack, what am I to you?”

“What’s brought this on?” asks Jack, rising to meet him. Ianto lifts his hand, as if to touch him; doesn’t.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”

“Whatever you’re thinking—”

“I’ll be down in the archives if you need me.”

“—it’s not that.”

Ianto stops; turns around. “It’s fine.”

“But it’s not – it’s been bothering you.”

“It’s … I’m – tell me, Jack, I’m just a convenient shag, aren’t I? Sir,” Ianto finally says, halfway out the door. Shit. He _really_ didn’t mean for that to come out.

“You’re _not_ ,” says Jack. He rakes a hand through his hair, distraught. “I’m sorry, Ianto.”

Ianto pretends not to hear. It’s too much.

The rest of the team is unaware of their row when they arrive. Ianto makes sure of it, shoving his tumultuous emotions under a mask of professionalism. By now, it’s second nature. And anyway, coffee will make things better. It usually does.

Jack, on the other hand, seems as self-possessed as ever. That is to say, he’s about as collected as Jack can be, under most circumstances. If he’s more restless than usual, they can’t tell.

Ianto can. He is.

No matter. He’ll talk to Jack later – probably. If he’s had a drink first.

He wishes that Jack would forget what he said.

Hopes he doesn’t.

For Torchwood, the day is fairly uneventful – rift spikes normal, nothing they haven’t seen before. Turns out, while they’re working, it’s not hard to avoid Jack when he wants to.

In the evening, they get called to investigate a disturbance – it’s quickly apparent that it’s just some kids messing around; not their problem, then.

By nine, they’ve all gone home. Ianto stays; feels he shouldn’t.

As soon as they leave, Jack accosts him on the catwalk. “Ianto, please. Talk to me. What would you like?”

“Er, nothing. It’s fine.” Ianto looks at him and Jack holds his gaze, unwavering.

“We can stop, if you want.”

They _could_ stop. It’s an option – just, not one he would take. And besides, knowing Jack, knowing himself, it wouldn’t last very long.

“I don’t. Fine, Jack. You want to know what I want? I want – something more, whatever that means,” he says. “And since you’re Jack Harkness, immortal _flirt_ , why would you settle for me?”

He takes a step back, suddenly realising his words. “Sorry, sir. I’ll go.”

“Ianto – wait. Ianto! You’re not _just_ anything to me.”

“Then what am I, Jack?”

“I don't know,” he sighs. “I—”

“You. Don't know.”

“No,” says Jack, frustrated now, but it doesn’t seem to be directed towards him. “I don’t, but not from lack of trying. You're … unique, somehow, and – oh, Ianto, I’d like it if you stayed.”

There’s a beat.

“Okay,” says Ianto. He doesn’t know what else to say, not with this sudden blossoming of –hope, is it? – in his stomach. Tries not to think about the inevitable aftermath, where that alluring uncertainty becomes solid and real and not at all what he wanted. “I – will, then.”

And then Jack smiles at him, but it’s different, this time; it’s unguarded and sincere and Ianto doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like this. To the team, he smiles to reassure, to crack a joke and to flirt; and though Ianto knows that’s still Jack, the one whose personality is all bluster and confidence, this – this is _different_ : this is Jack letting that tightly controlled persona slip, even just a bit, and in this moment Ianto can't imagine anything more beautiful. Just – it’s a pity that it won't last; that after this minute or this hour or this day it’ll vanish and Ianto won’t know how to get it back.

Ianto wants to kiss him, that smile, before it's gone.

He does.

He hopes Jack won't think him too forward.

Normally, these things are fervent, a few minutes snuck here and there, making them rushed and needy by nature; happening when they’re both desperately trying to numb the pain, the new horrors of the day, the old demons of the night; passionate, without emotion.

But this – oh, this is different, too; it’s kind and it’s tender and it makes him want to cry. Jack's fingers are tangled in his hair, cradling head, his other hand on his waist, coaxing. Ianto’s not thinking at this point. The incessant din in his mind quiets, for once.

He could get used to this.

He probably shouldn’t – Jack’s not that kind of person. Might’ve been, at some point, but no longer, and the night will likely end as it always does except this time, he'll know what could have been.

_Maybe_ , _it was better to be ignorant._

Then Jack breaks the kiss, pulls him into an embrace, and Ianto realises that it isn't, that he wants to remember, because his life is bleak enough without knowing – even fleetingly – this warmth, this all-consuming, overwhelming, _warmth_. Instinctively, he buries his cheek into Jack's shoulder, letting Jack stroke his hair, relishing his touch.

It’s so … nice. It can’t last. In the morning they’ll go back to being the captain and the tea boy and none will be the wiser towards the fresh wound in his heart, especially not Jack. It’s not their fault. It’d be easier if it was.

If it were any other night, his clothes would’ve been unceremoniously discarded by now; not tonight – it wouldn’t solve anything. Jack doesn’t seem to be up for it, either; he guides Ianto to the sofa and they sit, Jack’s arm draped over his shoulder. They don’t speak. Ianto can’t find the words, and he suspects Jack is the same. _He’s so full of life,_ Ianto thinks, _and what am I?_

He doesn’t have an answer. Doesn’t know if he wants one. Listens to Jack breathe, instead, the rise and fall of his chest, steady. Lets himself relax. He hasn’t done that since – since when? He can’t remember.

At some point, he falls asleep, which is strange – it’s far too early in the night for that.

The waking is a disorienting panic, par for the course, his heart is pounding, chest numb, stomach constricting, still half asleep and unable to process his surroundings.

It takes a few moments before he can understand what he’s seeing.

He’s in an unfamiliar bed. Well. Unfamiliar in the sense that he’s never _slept_ in it. He’s in Jack’s bed. He doesn’t know what to do with this information. Decides to shut his eyes for a minute longer, instead.

A minute stretches into an hour.

The sheets are tangled around him when he wakes again, and Jack’s still nowhere in sight. As he sits up, he studies the room, wrapping a blanket around himself. It looks a lot smaller in the morning, just a bed and nothing more. His suit jacket is draped over the rungs of the ladder, along with his tie.

He moves to get dressed, wondering, not for the first time, how Jack lives, instead realises that he’s already wearing the extra clothes he keeps in the Hub. The team can be oblivious at times, but Owen at the very least is almost sure to notice. He doesn’t care; he’s not going back to his flat. Not yet.

He ascends, emerging into Jack’s office. “Morning, sir.”

“Morning. How are you?”

“Uh. Good,” he says, shifting uncomfortably. The quiet understanding from the night past seems to have dissipated.

“C’mere? It’s just us.”

He does, settling on the edge of Jack’s desk; aware that his posture is a little too stiff, too formal. A silence descends.

“Ianto. I’m … sorry,” says Jack.

“What for?” asks Ianto. He can’t figure out where this is going.

“For everything, honestly,” he says. “I – I know it’s hard. And I’m not going to patronise you and say that I know how you feel. Because I don’t. Evidently.” Jack leans forward, pausing. Seems to be choosing his next words carefully. “But, Ianto. I'll try, _so much_ – if you want me to.”

Whatever Ianto was expecting, this was not it.

“I do,” he whispers. “I’d…” He trails off again. Jack waits; lets him speak. “…I’d like that, sir.”

Jack takes his hand, his touch delicate.

Somehow, this feels more intimate than anything they’ve done.

* * *

The next few weeks are the same as ever, except Jack is slightly more affectionate than usual. The shift is subtle; at first, only when they’re alone, then, around the team; small caresses and light touches, a hand on his back, rubbing his shoulder, stolen kisses when no one’s watching.

Jack doesn’t make him talk. A small part of him wishes he would – he’d never, otherwise. But, he’ll take what he gets. It’s already more than he could’ve imagined, and for that, he’s grateful.

He’s fairly sure no one else has noticed. It’s gotten so easy, fading into the background like this.

He’s sorely mistaken.

Gwen comes in one morning and sees Ianto leaving Jack’s office.

She greets him cheerfully. “Ianto! You seem better these days.”

“Do I?”

“Oh, definitely. It’s Jack, isn’t it,” she says, smiling, and when Ianto meets her eyes she seems to read all that she needs to know from his expression. “I’m so glad – he’s been better, too. Less grouchy, anyway.”

“Is he, now,” Ianto says, curiosity piqued. “Thanks, Gwen. Coffee?”

“Oh God, please.”

Owen, unsurprisingly, is somewhat cruder in his take.

“Shacking up with the boss, hm? Didn’t expect that from you.”

Ianto glances up from his work; barely manages to suppress the fluster in his voice. “S’pose I am.”

“Good on you,” says Owen, flashing a grin.

And that was that.

Tosh smiles at him whenever Jack’s with him. He smiles back.

“Guess I was wrong,” she says, later. It’s evening; the two of them are sat on the sofa, drinks in hand, pizza in front of them. Gwen has left for the night and Owen is poking at some corpse in the medical bay, ignoring them completely. “It’s been a while since I was _that_ off the mark.”

“Can’t be a bloody genius all the time, now, can you,” says Ianto.

“Nope.” She laughs, continuing. “You know, Gwen once told me that romance suited me. I think it suits you, too.”

“Does it, now?”

“Yeah. It does,” says Tosh, and it’s amazing to him, what distance can do for perception. For someone who’s constantly _thinking_ , who is perpetually turning over ever minuscule detail and implication – whether he wants to or not – the simplicity of her statement takes him by surprise.

There’s one thing she said, however, that he still can’t grasp. “Tosh, do you think that’s what it is?”

“How’d you mean?”

“Romance. Because, well. It’s Jack. It’s hard to tell.”

“Hmm. I can only speak for myself, but – I think he cares, much more so than he lets on. And, I also think he’ll come around eventually. Especially since—” she takes a sip of her drink. “—he’s stolen your heart, hasn’t he? Despite your misgivings.”

Ianto starts.

Has Jack, really?

Sure, he’s a good kisser – an exceedingly good one, for that matter. And he can make Ianto feel things, sublime things, things that he’s never felt before, not with anyone else. But, it wasn’t just that, was it? It’s also the way that Jack listens to him, lets him piece together his thoughts, demanding nothing, giving him time; the little touches of comfort, a hand on his shoulder, brushing his arm; and, despite all of Ianto’s mistakes and lies and betrayals, Jack’s _still_ here, by his side; there’s the way that Jack looks at him, sometimes, when it’s just _them_ , full of empathy and compassion, the icy façade melting away—

Oh.

Oh, _fuck_.

Tosh is right.

Then again, that’s nothing new.

* * *

After Tosh leaves, Ianto mills about the Hub, tidying up.

“Jack,” he says, sensing a presence behind him.

“How’d you know?” Even with his back turned, he can tell that Jack’s smiling, teasing him.

Ianto isn’t going to give it to him that easily. “That coffee you made for yourself, sir – I can smell it from a metre away. It’s awful.”

“It can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, but it is,” says Ianto as he turns, holding his hand out. Jack gives him the cup and he takes a sip, grimacing as the bitter liquid hits his tongue. “Truly awful.”

“Don’t know how we managed, before you,” says Jack and Ianto can tell he’s leaving it open, skirting any sort of real emotion but hinting at something deeper.

“Managed what?” he asks, softly. Briefly wonders if Jack will give him a cop-out answer, like he usually does, making a joke and sweeping it aside.

“To … keep going,” Jack says, sighing as he leans against a desk. “There’s so much here that I can’t control – like I’m always patching things up, holding things together with what little I have. It gets to me, sometimes.”

“Jack, you don’t have to go at it alone,” says Ianto, and something in Jack’s expression shifts. Something despondent.

“Tell me this, then. What will I do when you’re gone?”

“I can’t answer that, now, can I, sir.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“No, Ianto,” he says, reaching out, and Ianto lets Jack embrace him. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine,” he repeats, and anyway, if it wasn’t, they’d have larger issues to deal with. “I understand.”

“I wish you could. It’s different. ”

“Help me understand, then.”

“I can’t.”

Ianto sighs. “I know. Someday, then?”

“Someday,” says Jack. He pulls back to meet Ianto’s eyes and as he does, his demeanour changes. “Anyway. What would you like to do, tonight?”

“Would it be crass if I said you, sir?”

“Well – yes,” he replies, laughing. “Not that I mind.”

In the end, Ianto stays for the night. He doesn’t know what possesses him to do so, but it’s just so warm in here and so cold outside that he can’t bring himself to leave.

The bed is so small that he’s pressed right up against Jack’s chest, curled in his arms. It’s … not uncomfortable. Quite the opposite, actually. Jack runs his fingers through Ianto’s hair, soothing and repetitive, making him feel drowsy.

He’s so _warm_. He’s not felt this way in a long time; doesn’t know if he’s ever. The bed in his flat is like a slab of ice when he crawls in and it was different, with Lisa – a different sort of warmth, but this, he likes this, too.

Really likes it, in fact, and he starts to wonder why he was in such a hurry to leave, before. And –if he just closes his eyes, he can sort of imagine another life, another world, where this is simply what his nights are, where he’s not trembling, not attempting to silence the noise in his head; instead, he’s lying in bed with his … lover. Is that what Jack is? On a technicality, yes, he supposes, but this _thing_ they have is so nebulous that it feels wrong to use.

No matter. He’s here, regardless. And Jack is so, very, real. Real, and warm.

He still wonders if Jack will sleep. Surely, it would be tremendously dull not to, especially if they stay like this, entwined, for the rest of the night.

Which, they do, to Ianto’s surprise.

He wakes the next morning, slowly, a sensation of comfort still lingering around him. Jack is smiling at him when he opens his eyes, temporarily unguarded.

Something else is off. He can’t quite place it. Jack presses a kiss to his forehead and Ianto loses any remaining desire to get up. This is much, much nicer.

Jack doesn't make any motion to leave, either. “Hope you slept well.”

And then he realises: he slept _well_. His breathing is even, his pulse regular, so much so that he didn’t even notice. “I did, tonight. I don’t usually.”

“I'm glad, Ianto,” says Jack. “You should stay, more. I’d … like that.”

“Isn't it a bit boring, though?” Ianto mumbles, still only half-conscious.

“What, you think I don't sleep?”

“Well. Do you?”

Jack laughs. “Yes, I do. Occasionally. It helps if someone’s with me.”

“Mmm.” Ianto lets his head fall back onto Jack’s chest, closing his eyes once more.

He could easily get used to this.

Is this what home feels like? A sense of belonging, of comfort, of waking up and knowing that it’s still there. He’s felt it before, but it’s been so _long_ he’s definitely almost forgotten. And—

It never lasts, does it. Jack will leave, someday, he’s sure of it, and then – what will become of him? It’s not like he hasn’t noticed the way Jack talks about a doctor, nor how he seems to be waiting for something, every day of his life – something that Torchwood can never offer him. The question isn’t when – that, he doesn’t care about – but rather: would he come back?

Ianto would be lying if he said he was optimistic.

He’s not exactly sure what he’d be losing, but he already knows he doesn’t want to let it go.

“You alright?” Jack asks, and Ianto suddenly realises how tense he is.

“I’m … not, actually.” He doesn’t elaborate.

“When are we ever?”

Ianto manages a smile. Jack pulls him closer.

At some point, the proximity alarm goes off, and the sound of the door opening reaches them both.

“Shit,” Ianto mutters, pushing himself upright.

“I’ll go see who it is,” says Jack, rising. It takes him a moment to get dressed, then he’s off.

Ianto gets up, hoping that it’s Tosh who’s here this early. Owen would never let him live this down. Neither would Gwen, for that matter. Tosh, at least, would be discreet about it.

He emerges into Jack’s office. No such luck.

Gwen catches a glimpse of him through the window and she smiles at Jack, teasing, absolutely delighted. Ianto has no idea what she’s saying to him but it can’t possibly be work-appropriate, not with the amused glances she keeps casting his way.

“I was just saying to Jack – doesn’t he seem chipper this morning?” she says to Ianto, graciously accepting a cup of coffee.

“I agree,” he replies. “Apparently, I should do more filing for him.”

“Filing.”

“Yes.”

Gwen beams at him. Ianto grins back.

Jack coughs. “Don’t you two have work to do?”

“Right, yes,” Gwen says, setting her coat down. “I’ve a couple things I need to talk to you about, later.”

“Ianto, my office,” Jack says as he turns and walks away, leaving the two of them alone.

“I’m going to hear about this later, aren’t I,” says Ianto.

“Definitely. Now—” she tilts her head towards Jack. “—best not keep him waiting.”

He follows Jack into his office. “Sir?”

“Ianto, you’ll tell me if something’s wrong, won’t you?” Jack asks.

“I – yes.” Ianto’s taken aback. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Jack’s kind enough to not mention Lisa. “I worry about you, sometimes.”

“Ah. I’m…” _Don’t. Please do._ “I’ll be okay.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Jack knows he’s lying. He also doesn’t push it.

Maybe someday, things will be different. Just – not today.

They get on with their work.

* * *

Most nights, now, Ianto doesn’t go back to his flat. He doesn’t need to, anymore.

Well, not until Jack disappears.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> I'm on tumblr @[aellesiym](https://aellesiym.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


End file.
